


bronze & iron

by ceraunos



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Canon Compliant, Christmas, Fluff, Husbands, M/M, Post-Canon, black sails winter prompts, flinthamiltons, they're v married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-06 08:46:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16829125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceraunos/pseuds/ceraunos
Summary: Winter Prompts fills for 'I forgot to get you anything' and 'new traditions'.ft. two christmases a lifetime apart, two rings and a lot of domestic cosiness.





	1. 'I forgot to get you anything'

They see Christmas in with a hazy, heady drunkenness. There are soft touches before a semi-smouldering fire which James half heartedly pokes every now and again, although it’s warm enough between Thomas and Miranda’s bodies to do without. In low light from the last efforts of a candle, Miranda sings like liquid crimson, a tune that isn’t familiar and yet makes James yearn for times he’s never known. Somewhere outside a clock clangs twelve and a cheer erupts from the street. James turns and finds Thomas’ lips a hair-breath from his and presses forward.

Christmas morning is bright, crisp and all things the carols say it should be. Thomas insists they walk to church, smiling at everyone they pass and looping his arm through James’; merriness an excuse enough for closeness. James is fondly sickened by his unwavering high spirits and thinks he’d give any of the chorusing angles a run for their money.

The church is cool and smells of old stone and James fidgets as the music of trumpets and choir boys bounces off the rafters with the sound of glorious celebration. He thinks of the way Thomas’ thigh is pressing against his own and of Miranda’s gloves folded between them; thinks of how wonderfully different this is to the dark dull Christmases of childhood, to the rigidly formal events he’s attended with Hennessey or the raucousness of ship’s festivities.

There is more food than three could possibly eat at dinner, and after the staff have all had their share the rest is taken to a nearby alms-house Thomas is a benefactor of. Bundled up in Thomas’ silk scarf, James sees his own history reflected in the eyes of those lost in the peripheries and feels guilt in his new found privilege. He sees Thomas slip a chocolate to a young boy with a shock of red hair and wild, eager eyes. It isn’t what the child needs, but it is more than he will have hoped for, and when Thomas shoots James a bashful look, caught in the action, James’ chest blooms with peculiar gratitude.

A slow peacefulness falls on the rest of the afternoon, filling it with lazy kisses and quite nothings. Thomas surprised James with a deftness on the piano, fingers light and graceful against ivory. He pulls James down to half sit on him and tries to teach him a simple carol, the results of which are a deafening mess of chords and unstoppable laughter from all three of them after James concedes that through no amount of concentration will he master that skill.

They don’t get each other presents, except that they do. Miranda has knitted James a pare of the ugliest, lumpiest gloves and Thomas a matching scarf; a direct response to a well meaning taunt from weeks ago. Thomas gives Miranda an expensive perfume and a book of music that they both know he’ll get more use out of than see will.

Later, between tangled sheets and half-sleep, Thomas opens a small box and James’ breath briefly stops. He can hardly watch as Thomas slides the rough copper ring onto his finger, feels the solid, heavy unusualness of the weight of it settle somewhere in his chest, warm and reassuring. When he does look, he recognises the ring immediately; it’s a signet Thomas has worn regularly until recently, complete with his initials embossed into it. James runs his finger over the delicate lettering.

‘I had it resized, although I had to guess a little as to your size.’

‘I didn’t get you anything,’ is the only thing James can think to whisper back, overwhelmed.

‘I don’t want anything. You’re enough already.’

‘But -’ James starts, but Thomas silences him with a press of his finger to his lips.

‘ _ This  _ -’ Thomas wraps his hand around the back of James’ neck, tangling fingers in his loose hair cradling his cheekbone with his thumb. He stares at James so deeply and sincerely James’ heart skips slightly, a residue heat between them flaring. ‘This is more than I could ever ask for. It is everything.’

James doesn’t have time to protest, to even think of how to protest, because Thomas’ lips are on his and then the whole world melts away into his gentle, lingering touches.


	2. (New) Traditions

The first winter doesn’t exist. It is too hot to mark seasons and too unnecessary to bother to try. The plantation doesn’t stop and they are so preoccupied with learning how to navigate the impossible that Christmas doesn’t matter at all.

A year later and December rolls through in a haze of dust roads, stolen scraps and aching soles.

Christmas passes without a second thought, their prayers are the same every day now anyway; a cry for relief from what has come before and a hope for tomorrow. It’s very fitting for the season, really, not that either of them have the energy to consider it.

The third year, James wakes to a sleepy winter sun and the smell of fruit.

‘Merry Christmas,’ he says as pads into the kitchen, a thick woollen blanket around his shoulders. Thomas hums in greeting, without turning around. James presses an ice-cold foot to his calf and he yelps.

Thomas is painstakingly slicing thin circles of oranges. James reaches out, lightening fast to steal a segment and finds his hand being batted away regardless.

‘Uh uh. They’re decorations.’ James pulls a face – they’re not in a position to be wasting food as expensive as oranges – and Thomas offers him his hand instead, juice dripping down his palm. ‘You can have some when I’m done.’

James’ stomach grumbles as he licks the stickiness off Thomas’ thumb, but it’s testimony to the change the last year has brought that Thomas is doing this, so he says nothing. He’s rewarded, too, when Thomas removes every last edible part of the slices and feeds them one by one to James.

The morning passes unremarkably. There is oatmeal for breakfast, as there is every day, James tends to the animals, chops wood and goes to the town to sell it, Thomas plans lessons for the following week. James returns with bread and a little cheese and Thomas pulls his head out of a book long enough to eat.

When James curls up on a pile of rugs by the fire, his head resting on Thomas’ knees, he knows he’ll be stiff later and can’t bring himself to care. Thomas reads aloud and James sips at a brandy they only have for very good and very bad times. Thomas has hung the orange slices by the fire to dry and the sweet, woody scent of it fills the room with a smell of comfort and warmth; of familiarity and times lost. The wood pops, sending a shower of sparks across the hearth and Thomas’ hand curls into James’ greying hair.

‘I haven’t got you anything,’ Thomas murmurs. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be. This is more than enough,’ James echoes words spoken a whole lifetime ago, the rest of the sentence drifting unspoken between them. ‘I have something for you, though.’ James tips his head to smile guiltily at Thomas, whose eyes light up with surprise.

James reaches into his pocket, cupping the circle of metal in closed palms.

‘Close your eyes.’

He unfurls Thomas’ fingers one at a time until he gets to the right one, slipping the ring onto it. Thomas gasps, still not looking.

‘Alright.’

Thomas stills, staring at it, a faint wateriness to his eyes. The ring is dull iron except for a river of gold, weaving its way around the band like an endless pathway. James fidgets.

‘It was Miranda’s. The gold. I kept it, after…’ James explains, and like that the lingering grief that’s been hanging around them all day splits open. Except it isn’t the festering wound that James expected it to be, instead it is a weary, long overdue, peace; a reconciliation.

‘Thank you,’ Thomas breaths, and it feels like a song of home, sung low in fading candlelight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: i used to be a jeweller and i find the idea of christmas proposals sickeningly cliche because i've seen /so many/ people do it, but i guess this is cute and these two are forgiven for it???
> 
> thanks for all the love on my winter prompt fills so far my lovelies. if you want to join in the list is [here](http://ceraunos.tumblr.com/post/180381811328/black-sails-winter-prompts) or in the collection description x

**Author's Note:**

> there's a second part to this coming on wednesday, which fills the 'new traditions' prompt. x
> 
> If anyone wants to join in with the winter prompts countdown, the list is [here](http://ceraunos.tumblr.com/post/180381811328/black-sails-winter-prompts)


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